


Acquired Tastes

by EllaStorm



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Everybody is bi, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, Geralt almost dies because of Jaskier then compliments his butt and it's all downhill from there, Hand Jobs, I like the word "comely" too much, M/M, Neck Kissing, Shameless Smut, This is however not news
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Jaskier might have developed an unforeseeable appreciation for certain Geralt-related things.Monsters are slain. Hidden talents are revealed. Patience is not exercised; and sex, of course, is, eventually, had.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 2298





	Acquired Tastes

**Author's Note:**

> Henry Cavill is absolutely not helping my terrible crush on Geralt of Rivia at all.

“…and it was _obviously_ not Lady Falkenhall’s fault, either; I just happened to be stumbling straight out of her closet, because I was _terrifyingly, embarrassingly_ drunk off just that one chalice, can you believe it? Something must have been in there to make it more potent, because that wine was _strong_. Would have swept even _you_ straight off your feet.”

Jaskier made a pause, offering Geralt the opportunity for some kind of verbal or nonverbal affirmation, but the Witcher didn’t even grunt. Only Roach gave an approving snort of sorts, and Jaskier shot her a grateful look, before he shifted his eyes back to Geralt, whose expression was as stony and unreadable as ever.

It was almost nightfall and they were heading eastwards into the grassy hills of Sodden, having crossed Ina River twenty miles ago, which positioned them right about in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. Geralt had talked…correction, _grumbled_ something about the Mahakam Mountains and a Gorgo a few hours before; and Jaskier had successfully deluded himself into seeing a small conglomerate of wooden houses not too far off in the distance for about an hour now. He _hated_ spending the night on the road. It was cold and dark and uncomfortable, and the food was, above all, shit.

“Well,” he continued his story, taking his eyes off Geralt’s brooding silhouette, and resigning himself to the fact that the Witcher was going to contribute very little to this night’s entertainment. “Turns out that she wasn’t exactly sober, either; and finding me in her wardrobe sent her blood running a little hot. Not that I could blame her. I’ve been told many times-“

“Shhht,” Geralt made, suddenly, signalling Jaskier to be quiet by means of a stern look. Which was, really, the straw that broke the metaphorical donkey’s back.

“Oh, grand,” Jaskier said, frowning at Geralt who had halted Roach right in the middle of the billowing grass stalks that almost reached up to her belly. “First you show no interest whatsoever in my honest attempts at brightening your mood. Then,” Jaskier spurred his horse on a little, turning away from the Witcher. He didn’t actually care that Geralt wouldn’t be able to hear him like this – expressing his displeasure with the situation was mostly a means to keep his own peace of mind, anyway, since Geralt, clearly, didn’t give a fuck. “ _then_ you don’t even have the decency to properly tell me to shut up and only give me that _shhht-_ sound. And _on top of that_ I will have to spend another long night in this dirt-ridden doublet on a cold, grim-“

Jaskier didn’t get to finish his sentence, because a lot of things started happening at the same time. First, there was a loud _thump_ and a tearing sound _,_ followed by a slightly quieter “fuck” and a panicked whinny of Roach, all rounded off by what sounded like steel being drawn. Jaskier turned his horse around, and sure enough Roach was galloping towards him without Geralt in the saddle. He managed to grab her reins, almost falling off his own horse in the process, restoring his balance by just a hair’s breadth.

“Geralt!” Instead of an answer a silver blade flashed up in the high grass, dancing over a tumble of white hair, and an ugly, inhuman screech sounded towards Jaskier as Geralt’s sword hit something. Jaskier held his breath when the blade came down once again; another long-drawn screech in its wake that soon fell silent.

“Geralt!” Jaskier tried again, and this time the Witcher in question emerged from the grass, walking towards him, silver blade stained with blotches of black blood. His hair was wild and his eyes narrow; and Jaskier could see that the leather armour at his shoulder had a big, claw-shaped tear. As Geralt came closer, Jaskier spotted a line of pain around his mouth. “Thank God,” he said, and Geralt gave an annoyed huff, taking Roach’s reins from Jaskier’s hand a little more roughly than strictly necessary.

“Is it dead?” Jaskier asked, once Geralt had mounted Roach again.

The Witcher gave Jaskier a sidelong glance of intense disapproval.

“Yes. It is. And it wouldn’t have surprised me like this, had you, for once in your life, been able to keep your mouth _shut_.”

Jaskier bit his lip, ugly embarrassment turning his stomach to knots.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Mmh.”

***

To Jaskier’s complete surprise and relief his illusory village hadn’t been illusory at all. He just wasn’t very good at estimating distances; and so it was almost two hours after nightfall, when they finally reached the first row of houses. An originally sceptical landlady had soon been convinced by Jaskier’s silver tongue (and a few golden coins on top of that) to let a Witcher and a bard take lodgings in one of her rooms; and thus Jaskier found himself seated, a good deal more content than he had foreseen himself being that night, over a bowl of excellent stew on his bed, listening to the sound of water being poured into a wooden tub in the adjacent room. The splashing stopped after a while, and Jaskier could hear Geralt ridding himself of his armour, which prompted his mind to wander a little.

Despite his proclivities towards spending more time in the company of the fair sex when it came to matters of the bedroom, Jaskier couldn’t deny that bedding men – insofar as they were inclined to such things – had its own, particular charm. And although he hadn’t considered the Witcher _attractive_ at first sight, bulky, brooding, unwashed and prone to violence as he was… over the weeks he had spent in his company, Jaskier had developed an…appreciation of sorts, for certain Geralt-related things. The way every sinew of the Witcher’s body became taut when he drew his blade to slay another terrifying creature of the night, for example. Or the way the evening sun broke in his white hair and made it look like finely spun silver from the right angle. Or how the lines around his eyes crinkled when he found something Jaskier had said funny but refused to laugh. The shape of his strong legs in his leather gear and the calm, competent movements of his thighs when he guided Roach through difficult terrain. The long-drawn _Hmmmm_ when he was positively surprised by the bitter-sweetness of a perfectly tapped ale.

Yes, Geralt was an acquired taste, but the more Jaskier grew accustomed to him, the more difficult he found it to shake these little observations or even resist the occasional bout of self-gratification in the wee hours of the morning, imagining Geralt’s hands and lips doing wicked things to his body.

He wondered, sometimes, what Geralt’s preferences were in that department. As far as he could tell, they were most likely female - he knew that the Witcher bedded whores on occasion, when the urge overcame him, which had made him a lot more likeable in Jaskier’s book. It was a very human thing to do, after all; and Jaskier liked the human parts that Geralt was hiding under his unfeeling, uncaring veneer. There were more of them than the Witcher wanted to see. Not even to speak of the people around him, that assigned him a status barely above that of the monsters he slayed for them day to day.

“Shit,” Geralt’s voice came through the door and ripped Jaskier out of his cogitations. The word was pressed through gritted teeth, clearly pained.

“Geralt?”

“It’s fine,” Geralt grunted; followed by a large splash of water that signified to Jaskier that he had climbed into the tub.

The bard sat for a few more moments, before he made up his mind, put the empty bowl in his lap aside, got up, opened the door to the bathroom and stepped in.

Geralt was lying in the tub, head reclined, eyes closed; and despite the dirt he hadn’t yet scrubbed off his face and the black dots of monster blood in his white hair, Jaskier felt something hot bloom in his stomach at the sight of the steam forming lazy drops on Geralt’s scarred skin. His muscular chest shifted as he set himself into a more comfortable position, and the hard, symmetrical lines of his face were pulled into a frown.

“What do you want now, Jaskier?”, he asked, exhausted, but not without amusement. “Is there a monster under your bed?”

“Not exactly,” Jaskier said, and his eyes drifted to Geralt’s shoulder. Only then did he spot the deep gash that went all the way down Geralt’s upper arm, stopping mere inches short of his elbow; and remorse hit him like a punch to the gut. “Geralt, that should be sewn up.”

“It’s just a scratch,” the Witcher retorted, but the expression on his face as he moved the arm in question rather undermined his point.

“Sure it is,” Jaskier said; and then he was back in the bedroom rummaging through his bag until he found the thread, needle and scissors he kept on him at all times for unforeseen dress repairs on the road. He held the needle into the flame of the candle on the nightstand for a few seconds, before he rushed back over into the bathroom where Geralt expected him with a curious look in his yellow eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“This is a top-tier Toussaintian silk thread. So, hold still.”

Jaskier had expected more dissent on Geralt’s part, but the Witcher – uncharacteristically – did what he was told and held perfectly still, as Jaskier kneeled down by his side and adapted the margins of the wound with his fingers. Geralt must have cleaned it before climbing into the bath, which had probably been the reason for the cursing Jaskier had heard through the door earlier; but it was definitely too deep for it to heal without stitches.

The first stab of Jaskier’s needle through Geralt’s skin forced a small groan of pain from the Witcher’s throat, but he didn’t twitch or pull away, and so Jaskier gritted his teeth and kept sewing. Five neat stitches and a couple of colourful curses from Geralt later the wound was sewn cleanly shut; and Jaskier wiped the sweat off his brow and gave the Witcher a smile.

“Done,” he said.

Geralt looked at the wound, then back at Jaskier with knitted eyebrows. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“It’s not so different from repairing clothes, actually. And I have, as a matter of fact, seen a few healers do it to you in the last few weeks. I figured I might as well pick it up, when I’m on the road with you. You do tend to get hurt quite a lot.”

Geralt smiled at him. A full-fledged, honest, slightly crooked smile. “That’s part of the job description.”

Jaskier sighed. “I see a lot of coin being spent on very expensive threads in my future.” He looked down to the floor for a moment, remembering the events of the early evening, a small knot of guilt still stuck somewhere in his stomach. “I truly am sorry, Geralt. For today. That monster…it wouldn’t have gotten you, if I didn’t have…”

“Run your mouth off about one of your trivial escapades and distracted me from my work?”

“Basically – oi. They are _not_ trivial!” Jaskier looked back up and found Geralt laughing, quietly, his eyes sparkling in the light; and his annoyance subsided immediately. Geralt looked very handsome when he was laughing.

“Maybe some of them. A little,” Jaskier finally conceded, giving Geralt a smile of his own, before he got up and turned to leave. A strong hand caught his elbow, however, forcing him to look back into the Witcher’s face once again.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, warmth in his voice.

Jaskier cleared his throat, trying very hard indeed not to notice how big and strong Geralt’s hand felt on his arm. “Thank _you_. For. Well. Saving my arse at every bend.”

Geralt let go of him and shrugged.

“It’s a comely arse. Would be a shame not to.”

***

The rest of the evening had gone by rather uneventfully by their standards. Geralt had finished his bath, put on his smallclothes, blown out the candles and gone to bed, and Jaskier had followed suit; but sleep wouldn’t come. While Geralt seemed perfectly willing to pass over the fact that he had just told Jaskier to his face that he considered his arse to be… _comely_ , of all things; for _Jaskier_ this fact was incredibly hard to ignore.

He mulled the incident over once again, going through the possibilities he had constructed in his head to find some sensible explanation for Geralt’s uncharacteristically flirtatious behaviour. He had, thus far, come up with the following:

Possibility Number One: The monster that had scratched Geralt had poisoned him in the process and he was completely out of his mind by now, having mistaken Jaskier for a fair maiden of some kind. Altogether not too far-fetched an idea.

Possibility Number Two: Geralt was having him on. He had looked right through Jaskier and realised his persistently growing attraction to him, which he now used to play some kind of joke on him. Technically not too far-fetched, either, if Geralt actually knew what a joke was.

Possibility Number Three: Jaskier’s mind had fever-dreamed the whole scene up. Which was still a more likely possibility than…

Possibility Number Four: Geralt actually thought that Jaskier had a comely arse and had felt the need to tell him about his observation in a flirtatious manner, because he…well, because he what, actually?

“Bugger,” Jaskier murmured, turning around in his bed for the umpteenth time; and then his heart sank straight into his smalls, because Geralt heaved a sigh from across the room and spoke up.

“I can’t sleep with you thinking this loud, Jaskier. What is it?”

For a moment Jaskier considered not answering and acting as if he were sleeping; but then his frustration got the better of him. “You told me I have a comely arse,” he blurted. He was glad that Geralt couldn’t see the scarlet on his face through the dark.

“Yes,” Geralt said, calmly. “So you do. What about it?”

Next to the heat of embarrassment there was another, more pleasant kind of heat slowly rising in Jaskier’s stomach at these words. Geralt sounded completely composed, and not at all like he was joking.

“Was that an expression of…well, interest?” Jaskier probed, carefully. “Or was it merely a completely neutral observation?”

Silence fell for a long moment.

Then Geralt sighed, again. Deeply. “Come here, Jaskier.”

“ _What_?” That hadn’t been a squeak. Close, maybe. But definitely _not_ a full-blown squeak.

“My bed,” Geralt clarified. There was a smile in his voice now, clear as day.

Jaskier shook his sheets off, before he knew he actually meant to do it, not entirely in his right mind; and then he was standing, walking, arriving at Geralt’s bed like a somnambulist, where a blanket was being held up for him in the dark. Jaskier slipped beneath it with moderate hesitation; _right into the unknown,_ he thought.

And then Geralt was surrounding him, all heat and strength and freshly cleaned skin, and Jaskier was still not in his right mind, but in a rather mind-blowingly brilliant way.

“There,” Geralt said, his voice low and warm, and kissed him. He did it surprisingly gently, as if Jaskier were a skittish creature he didn’t want to spook, but the wildfire the kiss sparked in Jaskier’s stomach demanded more. He nipped at Geralt’s lip, twisted his fingers into long, gorgeous strands of hair, that were so much softer to the touch than he had imagined; and Geralt responded in kind, tongue pushing past Jaskier’s lips, hand wandering down over his back and coming to rest right at the curve of his arse.

“Comely,” he murmured in between kisses, and Jaskier pulled at his hair, bent his head slightly backwards and licked a lavish line down the tendon that stretched the side of his neck. Something close to a growl left Geralt’s throat; and a moment later, Jaskier was flat on his back, Geralt above him, his eyes two golden needles piercing the dark.

“Gods,” Jaskier said, enthralled. Geralt’s hips were flush against his, and he could feel his thighs, his stomach, and his bare, hard cock pressing against him. Both of them had lost their smallclothes somewhere down the line, and Jaskier couldn’t have cared less how or when. “I thought you didn’t-“

“I do,” the Witcher said, pushed a hand down between them, wrapped it around Jaskier’s length, and thumbed the tip of it with a calloused thumb, as if to underline his point, which prompted Jaskier to let out an embarrassingly loud moan.

“Mmmh,” Geralt said, and the low, pleased gravel of his voice made Jaskier’s cock grow even harder in the Witcher’s fist as he jerked him off with sure, heavy strokes. Jaskier pulled Geralt back down to kiss him, revelled in the way his thick cockhead rubbed against Jaskier’s hip, wetness beading at the tip – and sooner than he would have liked it to, he could feel the precursors of his climax tingling in the depth of his stomach.

“I think I’m going to - “

“Do it,” Geralt said. There was a commanding, inevitable quality to his voice. “Let me feel it.” Mere seconds later Jaskier gave into the familiar, white-hot sensation spreading from the base of his spine outward, covering Geralt’s hand in heat and wetness, as he stroked Jaskier through it, until he was softening in his strong grip. Geralt was kissing him in a less than demanding way; and Jaskier had to commend him for his self-control, given that he was still hard as a rock against Jaskier’s hip, and barely touched.

“Fuck me,” he said, on a whim, and then “I mean it,” because he realised that that was something he wanted very, very much, indeed; Geralt sinking into him, slick and heavy and hard, surrounding him from without and within, his presence engraved into Jaskier’s body, his mind, his very soul.

“Mmmh,” Geralt made, a deep, strained sound, like he was exerting great amounts of willpower. “I will, Jaskier. But not now. I need patience for that; and, presently, I’m out of patience.”

“On your back, then,” Jaskier said; and for the second time this night Geralt simply did what he was told without further ado, flipping them around again so Jaskier was on top of him. It was almost eerie how easily the Witcher had complied; but Jaskier didn’t ponder on it too much. There were things he needed to attend to.

He manoeuvred himself down on the bed until he found what he searched for, and sucked Geralt’s cock into his mouth without further ado, hollowing out his cheeks around the considerable girth. Over the next minutes he applied all the little tricks and twists of his tongue, lips and fingers he had acquired over the years; and the small, involuntary sounds from the Witcher’s mouth, the way his fingers buried themselves in Jaskier’s hair, pushing him further down and yet trying to hold off, the desperate little upward thrusts of his hips - it all more than rewarded Jaskier for his endeavours. It had a certain poetic quality to it, witnessing the Witcher slowly losing himself in the most human way possible, Jaskier thought, right before Geralt finally came down his throat, a mangled, cut-off moan on his lips.

Jaskier kissed the taste of him back into his mouth, kept kissing him for a while longer, until they were both exhausted and sated and sore.

“I’m not going to ask you where you learned to do _that_ ,” Geralt murmured. “But do know that I appreciate their joint efforts.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Witcher,” Jaskier retorted, sinking back into the pillow.

A pleasant, warm silence fell between them, sweat slowly cooling on their bodies; and after a while Jaskier felt a bone-deep tiredness settling in his limbs. He made a half-hearted attempt to get up and back into his own bed; but it remained futile, since Geralt firmly but wordlessly pulled him back by his waist, blanketed his back with his body and buried his nose at the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

The bard let his fingers drift over Geralt’s knuckles, touched the small scars on the back of his hand, decade-old remnants of cuts and grazes, and – shortly before drifting off – managed one final observation.

“Shame I already finished your ballad. This would have made for a good last verse.”

  
“Mmmmh,” Geralt made; and it didn’t sound quite disapproving.


End file.
